Adrenaline Addiction
by Wildhorses1492
Summary: She's John Watson. Well, Johnny Watson, but she always forgets that bit. She's been places, done things; learned to get over addictions and move on when it needs to happen. Until she's acquainted with a dark coat and cool eyes. She has always loved running the fast track, and now, in a world that's too slow, he moves the speed she craves.
1. Prologue

**_Prologue_**

* * *

 _Only in your head  
Time will help you out_

 _*Put It Behind You – Keane*_

* * *

"And do you think about things often?"

 _Gunfire. Somewhere nearby._

 _But there's blood in front of her. On her hands and on her fatigues._

 _"_ _Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson, please! Help me!" She remembers hearing them cry._

 _All the wounded. For her, for Jerry, for Steve._

 _They were all shouting, screaming, begging. It hurt to think about and it was bitter to recall. God, why didn't they just stop?_

 _They were dead. All of them._

 _Why didn't they just_ _ **get out**_ _of her head?_

"What? Oh, no, no. Hardly. I try to let things slide by now, you know." It was grey today, and looked like it might rain. That would be annoying later.

 _"_ _It's not serious; you can walk, Captain Watson."_

 _"_ _No, I can't! Don't you see?" She struggled to pull herself to her feet, sling her legs over the side of the dispensary bed. "I won't walk normally again! I've been wounded; you're not blind, surely you know that, doctor?" She stumbles, nearly falls. He catches her by the shoulder. The good one. A nurse near him comes over. Helps put her back in bed._

 _"_ _When you want to, you'll find you_ _ **can**_ _walk, Captain. This is a sympathetic injury; Lieutenant Steven McGuire, had he lived, would've had a similar limp. It will take time for your mind to recover from the loss of your companion."_

"Yet you still carry your gun and don't sleep regularly." Ella began writing, and she couldn't help it, she followed the scratch of the bad pen with her eyes and ended up trying to look for medical jargon amongst the notes for her troubles.

"Of course I don't! Why. . . Why would you say that?"

The woman across from her looked up, resting her pen easily between her hands. "How's your blog going?" There it was. That pointed, clear look interrogators always gave their victims. Inwardly she scowled and cursed. Outwardly she attempted to lie.

"Yes, hmm, it's good. Coming along fine." She cleared her throat, hating that she sounded weak. What had the war done to her? She didn't need this; she didn't need anything but a good bottle of whiskey and perhaps some meth. But, she hurriedly reminded herself, that was in her younger days. She was all past that now. All past that.

Ella Batterston was the name of her therapist; the therapy was required after her long stint 'across and beyond,' as she liked to call it.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" Her therapist's voice was disapproving around the edges, and it made her feel like squirming; something she hadn't done since she was green and a rookie. The pen scratched in the quiet, and she followed it again.

"You just wrote, _'still has trust issues._ '" A small part of her wanted congratulations or something for her accomplishment of reading the scrawly writing upside down, but the larger part of her was terrified that she'd said the words out loud. What was wrong with her?

"And you just read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?" Ella smiled knowingly. How she hated those kinds of looks. Knowing was disgusting sometimes, especially when someone knew something about you better than you did.

She struggled to give back an understanding smile; God, why was it so hard to empathize with people these days? It felt better shutting everything down except what she needed to keep going to survive. But then sometimes she wondered if she wasn't shutting down but burning out.

"Johnny, you've been an operative for a long time. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. You need to learn to be a woman again, not an officer; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

 _Three, two, one_. And there it was: the pity. Curse it to hell and back! She didn't need pity; she didn't need blogs. What she needed was something to keep her mind busy. She didn't want to shut down and twiddle her thumbs again.

"No, you're wrong about that. It won't help, because what happens to a retired op? _Nothing_."


	2. Spiralling

**_Adrenaline Addiction_**

* * *

 _I guess I'm a toy that is broken  
I guess we're just older now_

 _*Broken Toy – Keane*_

* * *

She jerked up from her pillow, the nightmares coming hard and fast. She reached up, saw her hand shaking, and touched her brow. No sweat this time, she realized. She glanced toward the single window in her small flat, noticing the light, grayish-rosy hue of early morning. She cast her dull eyes over to the digital clock on her night table beside the simple bed. 4:39 a.m. Soon now, the sun would be up.

She looked around the small flat, stopping her roving gaze at the small kitchenette. She didn't do much shopping; it was too hard to cook and keep her mind from drifting off to thoughts that hurt to over-think. _'What can I do until it's not too early for me to be up?'_ her mind wandered over all simple possibilities, and she quickly checked it when it thought about garrisons and Steve. That was somewhere she wasn't ready to go into yet, though Ella had said she should start thinking about it more.

She slung her legs over the side of her bed and looked down at the rug with a slightly blank expression. Absently she reached over for her cane, grateful to have some type of crutch to lean against as she made her way to the bathroom. She thought about Life With Steve for just a second, wishing he were here; she could lean against him and they would've laughed together about their injuries. She jumped when she realized the faucet had been running so long it had gone hot, burning her hand and reminding her that she was dreaming. She inhaled shakily, sniffling and brushing a few tears off her face as she moved to get her toothbrush.

 _"Going through the little everyday cycles will help you cope."_

That was what Ella had said, and she'd try to accept it. But it still felt wrong to be doing things alone. Slowly she shuffled from the bathroom to the kitchenette, reaching for a mug beside the small sink that she'd washed out the evening before. She began heating water and methodically making coffee. It wasn't until she'd finished and began stirring in the cream – only thing she had in her fridge – that she realized she'd made it the way Steve always liked it.

She'd never drink it.

Nevertheless she dragged the mug across the counter and held it as she made her way to a cheap, faux-mahogany desk near the short hall to her small flat's front door. Setting the hot coffee down atop an old mug ring on the desktop, she looked at the dust and thought about how little she kept house. Not that she had much to keep house about besides her clothes in the closet and the Browning handgun she kept because of sentiment; that was a bad reason to hold on to anything. Thinking about it she reached over and pulled open the drawer, only to be faced with the laptop she'd received from Steve's family. They'd bought it together, but he'd had it, and his family gave it to her because they didn't know what else to do.

She felt like she'd stared at it and avoided it long enough. Sighing, she pulled the red laptop out of the small space, trying to not glance at the gun as she slammed the drawer closed. Shifting in the chair, she began setting up shop. Jerry had talked like that; he came from the States or something close to it, and he did the strangest things; but he had a good sense of humor to go along with his quirks. ' _And he's dead,'_ she reminded herself.

Adjusting the lid at a comfortable angle, she moved to pull up the internet. She typed in her identification and password, watching as her blog loaded. Eventually she opened a writing page. She hovered the mouse over the page for a moment, debating, and then clicked. The cursor blinked on the whitish-blue page relentlessly, refusing to be ignored. She stared at it, suddenly feeling clammy all over, her gun hand shaking slightly. Cursing under her breath she flexed it, but the therapeutic motion didn't really help.

 _"Inhale. Exhale. Now breathe. Do it until you can think straight again, all right, John?"_

In flashes that hurt terribly she saw Steve's comforting smile, felt the reassuring pressure of his hand on her shoulder. She remembered the first time she'd ever watched someone die in the medical tent. All the blood and the tears and then nothing but silence hovering in the air, the distant thunder of bombs and war machines rumbling in her ears. He'd been there, and he'd skipped her name and went directly to the familial one. Of course, he hadn't known that then. But it had meant a lot to her.

Her breathing echoed in the room now, replacing the sounds of war in her head. Slowly, at first hesitantly, she put her hands on the keys of her laptop.

 _ **'I managed to get up today and make the kind of coffee I hate.'** _

She stared at the words, looked at the edges of her rather boring blog on the screen, and quickly slid her index finger over the touchpad until the arrow hovered atop the small button-shaped square bearing the word 'post.' She expelled her held breath rapidly and slammed her finger down sharper than she needed to, watching as the circle on the browser bar indicated her entry was posting.

Minimizing the page she drew up a new one and went to the News, browsing through it and reading at random. A bold black heading momentarily offset her, reading ' ** _Three Dead – Suicide or Serial?'_** She stared at the words, 'suicide' burning into her mind particularly fast and hard. Ideas began to loom up, and her hand moved from the desktop towards the drawer holding her gun.

"No!" She slammed the lid down in one fluid motion, denying her brain any more of those disgusting sentiments. Abruptly her alarm clock buzzed, reminding her that she had set it last night; she always set it, and yet it always managed to throw her off in the mornings. But maybe that was because she wasn't expecting a harsh buzz. Shoving all her lurid thoughts into the dark nether-parts of her mind, she stood, gripping her metal cane firmly as she made her way to the closet.

Opening the door she looked inside. Her eyes caught a pea-green box pushed onto one of the upper shelves, far back into the corner of the closet as possible. She lowered her gaze, knowing what it concealed. She never wanted to see another uniform as long as she lived.

She reached up, pulling off the hangers a powder-blue waffle tunic and some dark jeans. Standing in the bathroom after taking off her night clothes, she looked at the scars on her shoulder and the scars on her arms. Lightly she touched one on her upper-forearm. She would never do that to herself again. Critically, she admitted that Ella and her sister were right, she was getting too thin.

Maybe she _should_ try and keep her weight up, but she didn't want to. It wasn't worth it, all this existing when it wasn't really living. It was getting by when she'd like nothing better than to . . . just . . . stop.

Finally, she got sick of staring at herself, looking at her short hair and scarred body. She reached her hand under the water streaming from the shower nozzle and decided it was the right temperature.

She exited the bathroom fifteen minutes later, running her fingers through her thick, grayish-tawny, beginning to get shaggy, pixie cut. Limping to her bedside she brought her hiking-style boots out from underneath it, pulling on her socks and then her shoes, tying the laces easily with her fingers from years of military precision.

' _Russell Square isn't too far, I suppose I could walk there,'_ she mused to herself, deciding it was worth the ache she knew would be in her leg that evening. If she remembered right, it wasn't too far from St. Barts.

 **.**

 **.**

It was a bit cooler than she'd expected, but that didn't bother her too much. Being out in the sun and the bustle of London actually made her feel better; more alive. As she passed a homeless woman in a baggy green coat, she wondered where the haunts were; where one might go for some forgetting. Roughly she struggled to remind herself that that life was all in the past. That Steve and Jerry had made her promise she wouldn't waste herself; it was a bit hard. But just a bit.

"Johnny!"

She stiffened, coming out of her thoughts. A bit furtively she looked around, quickening her limping walk. She really didn't want to talk to anyone right now, especially someone who knew her _before_.

"Johnny Watson!" But the voice was persistent, and so she stopped, turning slightly as heavy breathing and a large beige coat caught up to her. She straightened, recognizing the good-natured brown eyes behind the round, owlish glasses. Seenforn? Samford? It was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn't remember, and it was aggravating.

Almost as if he knew her struggle, he offered his hand and spoke, "Stanford. Mike Stanford. We were at Barts together."

Suddenly she remembers the skinny, freckled boy in the back of the room always carrying around reams of paper, offering strange ideas and interesting answers that were more complex than they had to be for the problem at hand. He'd looked different in those days. He hadn't been so moon-faced, if she recalled correctly. In fact, she thought she'd once admired his cheekbones with some of her female classmates.

She cracked a smile at her memories, accepting his hand, which he squeezed gently before releasing.

"Yes, sorry; I remember you, Mike. Hello." That felt so half-attempted and uninterested. "Hi." Now that was just idiotic to add, but she did it anyway, so she might as well live with it.

"Yeah, I know," he paused, looking at himself with an almost rueful expression, "I got fat!" He shrugged a little, as if he'd resigned himself to it after all this time.

"No, no!" She attempted to sound convincing, blushing slightly because she'd thought he'd changed so much just a bit ago.

Mike looked around at the park, watching a woman walk her retriever across the grass under some trees. Finally he looked back at her, reaching up and pushing his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. "So I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" He was expectant, as most people were, and her cheerfulness that had been growing suddenly flatlined.

"I . . . got shot." She fisted her hand and bounced it against her leg; not her bum one, the good one, feeling somewhat caddish for ruining the moment. But she couldn't help it, he killed it first. In a twisted sort of way it was a victory, making someone feel as unsure and awkward as she did.

"I'm sorry, really –"

"I've had a bad time of it; I'm not my best –"

They spoke at the same time, and then they stopped, grinning slightly. Well, she was grinning a bit, Mike was closer to chuckling. That reminded her how he'd been a good one for a laugh. Always telling silly jokes and trying to get the serious students to smile for even a second.

"Johnny, since I seem to get my foot in my mouth at our first reunion, how about I buy the coffee?" He smiled warmly, and she couldn't help but copy it, knowing he deserved it after what she said and how she tried to make him feel. "You like it black still, right?" He sounded like a little kid attempting to be pleasant after saying something that wasn't his fault. She nodded, brushing some of her hair out of her eyes.

"Yes, I still do."

"Well then," he gives a little nod, as if pleased at this conformation, "You sit at the bench here and I'll get us some coffee over there." He motioned to a man standing behind an umbrella-covered food-cart a couple yards away.

"It's a deal," she agreed, moving over to the bench as he goes and fetches them the coffee. She lost herself, staring across the park and thinking about how much smaller the open space was compared to other spaces she's seen. Only when the smell of hot coffee came to her nose did she look up. Mike held out a take-away cup, an expression in his eyes she couldn't quite read and wasn't going to bother trying to.

Quietly they looked around the park and drank their coffee. She thought about how she'd ruined hers that morning, suddenly grateful for running into Mike, since she wouldn't have bought some while she was out. She hated standing in queues only for people to take sympathy and offer to let her go ahead of them. Finally, she found a topic to discuss, and looked over at her old friend.

So you. . . You're still at Barts, then?" She knows he has to be; why else would he have the briefcase beside him? He'd been fiddling with it and the papers inside it while she was lost in her thoughts.

"Teaching now." He chuckles softly, and when she looks at his face she can tell he's remembering the past. "Bright young things like we used to be." She thinks about that, struggling to recall if she was ever happy and carefree. Maybe she was or maybe she had been nothing more than a good liar, deceiving everyone around her into believing she was fine and content. She'd had her addictions bad then, and the world had seemed to spin a lot faster, moving to her dance. Now she didn't even know how to play to that tune.

"God, I hate them!" That made her jump almost imperceptibly; wrenching her from her memories and quagmire of dirty thoughts. What does he hate? Oh, yes, the young students, the people they used to be. She nods, because that sounds about right. Then frowns, realizing she was that type of girl too once.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

He's dragging her answers out now, and she tries not to notice that she's slow in keeping up a conversation that she purposely began. So she scoffs just a bit, as if the idea is highly amusing in some jagged way. "You know I can't afford London on an Army pension. It's impossible."

He laughs softly, and she hears the knowing in it and freezes. He remembers how she used to be. She hears it in the laugh. 'Good-times Johnny,' it goes without saying. Everyone from her old days would remember her like that.

She'd wondered how long it would be before she crossed the path of someone from then. "Ah, but you can't afford to be anywhere else. Not live in London? That's not the Johnny I know." He grins, and the corners of his eyes crinkle into crows' feet. Oh lord, he remembers that night when they were high and drunk, doesn't he?

She covers her discomfort, feeling hateful and annoyed and irritated. "Yeah, I'm not the Johnny Watson. . ."

Instantly, she regrets her cruelty to him. He was just trying to cheer her up. She always seemed to be against cheering up these days, even from her sister and the offer she'd made. She stares down, uncomfortable. As soon as she thinks about being back in the Army and away from all this complexity, her hand trembles, threatening to spill the coffee. Aggravated that it decided to act up, she transferred her cup to her right hand, trying to stop the tremors.

"Couldn't Harry help?" She wants to scoff at that. _Harry_? As in the Harry that was probably a high, drunken mess on her couch right now? Certainly not! She snorts dismissively, her nose scrunching as if a bad taste had filled her mouth.

"Yeah, like _that's_ going to happen." She looks over at him in time to see him shrug a bit hopelessly. He meets her eyes, an understanding in his. She wants to smile in gratitude, because he understands. All the pain and the confusion dragging her down, he gets it. She remembered when his parents died, and he said he wanted to die too. He gets her, and she feels a little better in his company now.

"I dunno, then – get a flatshare or something?" It was a last tactic method he often employed. He told her about it once. When he thought of something first, he made sure to mention it last, since it was sure to be the best idea of them all. This time, though, he'd struck out. She smiled with a bit of sarcasm, mentally using another of Jerry's catchphrases.

"Come on – who'd ever choose _me_ as a flatmate? Maybe once, but not now."

He grinned, his face cracking into a wide smile as he shook his head a bit, merry laughter escaping him. She felt confused. What was so funny? She was being serious. She'd not make any ordinary woman a good companion. She shouldn't be alone, but not at the risk of depressing someone else.

"What?" she demanded, her annoyance rising again.

"Well, it's just that you're the second person to say that to me today." He tossed his head a bit from shoulder to shoulder while looking at her, as if sizing her up and thinking about this completely unknown mystery person.

"Who was the first?" she asked suspiciously. There was no one else she'd live with if they were like Mike, and she didn't know he knew any other women closely besides herself.

"Oh, I think you'd get along fine. See, he's not your typical fellow. He's very much into his work, and that doesn't include women. Probably even be a swell backup if you _do_ start going out again." At first, she was skeptical, but then, she realized Mike _did know_ his people; if he said this guy was a nice-seeming fellow, who's to say he wasn't?

"Do you know where I can talk to him?"

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **This is something completely random that popped into my head after seeing something that had female!John paired with Sherlock. So the idea has been growing and I've finally got enough written to post. It's going to be a bit different from the television series, most likely. I don't want it to just be a fanfic where all the 'hes' are simply replaced with 'shes'. I know someone named Johnny; an elderly woman who loves her name and who some people affectionately call "John." That's actually where another of my ideas came from.**

 **John's depression and mental insecurities will come from my own; I think I've enough experience in that area to make this fanfic believable. Even the almost-suicidal ones. However, I've never cut myself or gotten high, I've only read of doing so. As I've hinted, Johnny's been in a relationship/friendship during her stint as a soldier/doctor/operative in Afghanistan. Please note that I'm American, so I'll probably get a lot of British details wrong. If there's anything like that, _please_ let me know so I can fix it; I want this story to be as accurate to the series as possible! **

**I hope you've enjoyed the prologue and first chapter,**

 **WH**


	3. Meeting

_Saw your face looking back at me_

 _I saw my past, and I saw my future_

 _*The Lovers Are Losing – Keane*_

* * *

She waited, sipping coffee and letting the warmth flood her to her fingertips. Mike seemed to stall, as if he were hesitant.

"Yeah. . . Most likely the lab rooms in Bart's. Or the mortuary." He drank a long gulp of his coffee, watching some leaves skitter across the path at their feet. She clasps and unclasps her fingers around her cane, absorbing the information.

"So he's a medical student, then?" It seemed practical. He was probably young; probably stood out like Mike had in class, which was why he liked this boy better than all the others he taught. She didn't want to be around someone young. Sure, he was probably different, quiet around people he didn't know, but he had life ahead of him, and she only had a bum leg and a dull blog to think about at the end of the day.

"Um, no. I actually don't have a clear picture of what he's doing. He seems to know his anatomy pretty well, and he's a first-class chemist. But I don't believe he's studying. A least, if he was, he'd be far older than all the kids I teach, and one of those people who'd be a lead scientist someday. However, I don't think that's on his list." Mike exhaled, settling back on the bench as if assuming they'd be talking for a while.

"You've never asked him what he's going in for?" She felt incredulous. He once always asked his fellow students what they were studying; what they planned for their futures. Things like that had always interested him, and now for him to be declaring ignorance. . . Well it was certainly not his usual manner.

"Johnny," he chuckled, an echo of knowing in the back of it. The sound made her slowly grate her teeth, annoyed. Yes, she'd been gone for a while. No, she didn't know the goings-on of Bart's as much as she once had, but that was no reason for Mike to be patronizing now! "He's not someone you could easily draw a conversation out of. In fact, a moment ago I could've sworn you acted just like him! Though, when he has something to say he certainly goes right out and makes himself vocal enough."

Mike sounded thoughtful, and she looked over at him, admittedly curious. So this wasn't a student he was suggesting getting a flatshare with. He apparently wasn't anyone of particular influence, this mystery man; no one she could know. And yet Mike thought she would be interested in him. Wait. . . He was setting her up, wasn't he? Just like he used to do. Oh, no; no, no, no, she wasn't ready to handle this! She'd had enough stupidity from Harry.

"Mike, I'm not looking for a date; I thought I'd clarif –" He lifted his free hand almost in a sort of supplicating gesture, cutting her off.

"Wait, wait, Johnny, I thought we were talking about flatmates?" He grinned brightly, and she realized he had been leading her on. "You know, we could solve all this real quick by me popping back in to Bart's and taking a quick look-around for him. If I find him, I could fetch you. If I don't, well, leave me your number and I'll ring you when he does turn up."

He was truly reaching out, and she felt touched for a moment. Slowly, she shook her head. "Mike, if he's not there I'm not going to bother about it, all right? You go on ahead and look for him while I sit here and finish my coffee. Find him, and I'll come run inspection. If he's off doing lord knows what, it's best to let the sleeping dogs lie." She gave her old friend a meaningful expression, and eventually he nodded in understanding.

"You don't really want to push this, do you?" He stared back at her, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

She bobbed her head almost imperceptibly. "No –" she paused, trying to get her bearings. Why did she feel like crying all the sudden? "No, I don't. I'd rather let this happen or let it slide."

"Well then, I'll go take a look, right?" He stood, taking a step forward and disposing of his cup in a trash bin. He glanced at her, as if checking that she was going to be all right by herself, and then set off down the path towards the hospital. She watched him go, feeling slightly strange about the whole encounter. It felt good to have seen Mike again after so long, but this situation was beginning to have all the earmarks of rushing. She hadn't rushed in forever, how could she do that now, with this bum leg?

 **.**

 **.**

Mike came back almost an hour later; she'd checked her phone twice during the wait, and began to think that it was a lost cause, that she might as well admit defeat. Her luck had run out the day both Steve and Jerry died in that explosion. The moment she got shot trying to go back to where they had stood seconds before. Yet there Mike came, puffing and grinning wide enough that it seemed his face might split.

"He's here, up in the lab. . . Testing some theory of his . . . I dunno. Point is . . . you can meet him." He stood there, catching his breath, and it took her a minute and a couple of blinks to realize he was expecting her reaction. She attempted a smile and was glad he'd never been able to tell her false ones from the genuine ones. Slowly, she shuffled to her feet, pushing his offered hand away; Ella said she needed to do things herself, especially standing. She wasn't quite sure what the point was about that, but she figured it was better to listen to one's therapist instead of ignore her.

She stood there, and for the first time genuinely felt in a good mood. She grinned brightly, finding something supremely cheerful about this whole odd situation. It reminded her of the old days or something, she didn't know, really.

"Well then, Mike, lead on to this potential flatmate!" Motioning to the path, she began limping along beside him towards a hospital she'd not seen in over a decade.

 **.**

 **.**

They climbed floors and floors, walked passed rooms filled with all sorts of technical gadgetry and medical paraphernalia; a lot of it was fascinating and completely different from how she remembered. But her thoughts always came back to the fact that this was a teaching hospital, and things would probably change with the times as fast and as smoothly as medically possible.

Finally, Mike knocked on a door with the small plastic plate beside it reading 'Lab Rooms' in orderly white typeface. She looks at him for a moment curiously, and then some color comes to her cheeks, remembering when she'd once walked into a dark lab and accidentally come across two chem students. That had been slightly embarrassing. Now it was just a fact, and she was sure Mike had taught enough here that the habit of knocking was subconscious, since he knew who was inside.

Humming under his breath and tilting his head, he opens the door, motioning for her to go ahead of him. She smiled her thanks, limping into the room. Waiting for Mike, she looked around and found herself amazed by the changes. Compared to what she'd learned in, this seemed almost like one of those science fiction novels. It was amusing, and she turned to Mike as he closed the lab door behind himself.

"Well, this is a bit different from my day." She walked over to a petri tray, examining the contents for a bit, then looked up, studying the room.

Mike turned to her, feeling absently around in his pockets for something. "Yeah, you've no idea!" He chuckles, and she's confused slightly, but nods in agreement anyway, as if she understands what he's referring to.

She tries not to stare too hard at the third occupant of the room. However, she couldn't help herself, remembering when she and Silly used to go to pubs and they'd analyze all the men and talk about their potential. It was a drinking game, and she'd no idea why it came back to her now, but she couldn't stop herself. Her gaze flickered on him for a moment, and she summed him up to herself. He was all dark hair and pale skin. Nightmare and a dream, she mused wryly. Maybe a one-nighter, she finally decided, and then he glanced their way; didn't move his head, but his eyes flicked in their direction.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Brusque and all business, his voice; smooth like velvet though, and she found her thoughts steam-rolling on before she could catch the slip-up. She could feel her face heating at her highly improper thoughts, but she couldn't help it; she couldn't think of Silly and _not_ _think_ of the rest of the little drinking ritual.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike's voice brought her back, and she turned her head towards him, slightly startled and slightly relieved to have been drawn out of that mini-episode down nightmare lane.

"I prefer to text." He still didn't look up and he still didn't acknowledge her presence. Then she remembered Mike digging around in all his pockets, and his hum of annoyance.

"Sorry, but I left it in my coat." Mike tapped on a petri dish as he spoke, adjusting his glasses as he picked it up and inspected its contents. She wants to smile at that, but she can't; she's too busy thinking about how to easily and smoothly integrate herself into the room. Mike was right; this man didn't seem to see women. She reaches into her back pocket, thinking about what Steve had told her once about helping your fellow man, even if that fellow deserved a beating for his rudeness.

"Um, here. . ." she looks down at the phone, noting that it's almost a shade lighter than her laptop. Finally, with a short toss of her head, she stretches out her arm, in a crazy offering of sorts to this complete stranger. "You can use mine."

He looked up then, as if finally seeing her in the room. The only thought that crossed her mind was ' _Beautiful_.' It made her cheeks tinge pink slightly, but she thought it anyway. _'It's true,_ ' she struggled to defend herself; ' _he has nice eyes. They look a bit like Jerry's._ ' And there was the complete lie. His eyes looked nothing like Jerry's.

"Oh. Thank you." It was impersonal in an exceedingly personal way, his voice. It reminded her of her old HK417. You kept it close to you, but you didn't love it because if you could use it on your enemy, your enemy could just as easily use it on you. He stood, looking where Mike had gone off to as he began moving towards her.

"Oh, this is an old friend of mine, Johnny Watson. We used to go here together." Mike introduced her, but from the way the man was almost staring her down, she realized an introduction was probably a bit over the top. He nodded almost imperceptibly in response to the words, and she realized that he wasn't going to tell her his name. She struggled to grind out her irritation as he took her phone nimbly from her hand, sliding it open, his fingers flying over buttons as if he used her phone every day of his adult life.

It was a bit uncomfortable, since the last man she'd known who was able to use her things so well had been blown to bits in the middle of a scorched field somewhere she'd rather not think about.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Well, it seems I have a bit of a Keane addiction, doesn't it? Actually, I _do_ love them, but that's not the reason their lyrics are at the beginning of every chapter; I once had a goal of writing a fanfic with the chapters beginning with lyrics of songs sung by the same band/singer, not a whole bunch of different singers/bands. Not to mention that a LOT of Keane's songs fit Sherlock so well that I wanna laugh and cry in turns! :) The conversation about Sherlock is from the books, btw, for all of you who notice its familiarity. **

**'Silly' is a nickname for 'Sylvia,' but I don't think that's a British thing or an American thing, it's just a me-thing, oddly enough. And Johnny's little "drinking game" is actually something I do silently when I'm in the food court at Costco, watching people go by. *blushes madly* What can I say? I'm a writer and I have an over-active imagination.**

 **Goscar: I fixed all those mess-ups you told me about! Do you see anything in this chapter that's disgustingly off? I'd love to know, because you were brilliant to point those last heinous errors out to me! :)**

 **Thanks for reading,**

 **WH**


	4. Aware

_I guess you've seen it all  
But you,  
You see nothing at all_

 _*You Don't See Me – Keane*_

* * *

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

If she'd been feeling strange before, she'd just been left alone in a metaphorical room with all the lights off. She moved her gaze to Mike, looking for answers to the strange question. He smiled stupidly, and she wished in that moment that she could leap across the tables between them, pummel him to the ground and beat that goddamned smirk off his face.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" He looks at her now, and the expression in his eyes reads 'slow.' For the first time in a long time, she felt flustered. Before she can respond, he's back to the phone, peering at the small screen and tapping out something with his long fingers. _'He might've made a wonderful surgeon with those fingers,_ ' her mind absently throws up, and it makes the corners of her mouth turn down with aggravation.

"Afghanistan, but, um, I'm sorry; I don't mean– How did you know?" she tries that question weakly, since the others were painfully stupid. Another glance at Mike reveals another not-helpful-at-all grin. The prankster was enjoying this too much for his damned good! Trying to think about something other than the cold, all-business-like man in front of her, she looks to the door just in time for it to swing open and reveal another woman.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you."

They share glances, and for a moment sympathy resides in Molly's eyes. Johnny smiles, trying to feel welcoming, but it's been awhile since she's been in another woman's presence who looks about the same age she is. Well, besides Harry, but she's older and maybe that doesn't count? The dark haired man who she's supposed to be discussing flatsharing with accepts the mug from the other woman as he hands back her phone. Johnny knows the look Molly's giving him, and instantly empathizes with this woman.

' _Mike was right; women are_ _ **not**_ _on his list of things to get done._ ' She thought again, turning her phone absently in her hand. Molly moved around the tables, going to the man's other side. Johnny watches as he gives her a passing glance and then studies her. Hard.

"What happened to the lipstick?" It's a demand and a question at the same time, it sounds, and Johnny wants to suddenly kick this ignorant observer when she sees the blush climb up Molly's neck.

"It, um, wasn't working for me." Johnny watches her clear away something on the table; probably invisible dust, since that's what she used to do in awkward situations. He looked at the woman again.

"Really?" She shook her head a bit. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He does a funny quirk with his hands, frowning somewhat as he strides easily back to his stool and his microscope. Johnny watches him tilt the mug to drink as he sits, and she notices it's black, the way she prefers it. He quickly pulls the mug away from his mouth, and she can't help smiling at his look of startled disgust. ' _Serves you right. If you hadn't been so busy criticizing you might have noticed the contents of your mug.'_ Her smile vanishes when she thinks about the fact that Steve hated black coffee too.

"Okay. . ." Molly begins moving towards her, and Johnny meets her eyes, offering understanding and sympathy in one look.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

She'd been so busy silently chatting with Molly that the words startle her, and she turns, expecting the question to be for someone else, but the lab door was swinging closed and Mike was watching them, blinking in his owlish fashion, eyes sparkling a bit with mirth.

"You _are_ addressing me?" She tilts her head, staring at the man who's busily going about something with a laptop on the other side of the microscope, his mug of coffee untouched since the first experimental sip. "I just want to be sure, since it's a little hard to read minds."

"I play the violin when I'm thinking." He stops, and looks over, his fingers lightly posed over the keyboard of the laptop. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

 _'Oh, yeah, I can think of some bad things about myself.'_ He considered violin playing and long silences his worst? What would he consider depression and drunken stupors? But his false look of sincerity was throwing her off from replying sarcastically.

And again, she felt flustered. She cast her gaze to Mike, and he shrugged a bit, as if encouraging her to keep going. "Did you, um . . . So you told him about me, then?" It was okay, she didn't mind, but she wished Mike had said something. Maybe that was why he'd been gone so long, he'd been conversing with this guy about her and flats?

"Not a word." Mike's voice was filled with detectable glee at the situation, his amusement clear in his eyes and the way he pushed one hand into his pocket. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked back at the mystery man who thought violin playing was his worst habit.

"Then why did you just assume I'm here to talk about being flatmates? It had to have been a stretch, considering that I'm a woman and you're a, um . . ." Heat crept up her neck, and she felt embarrassed for even thinking what she was thinking. If she'd been among friends she'd have been a blundering, loud-spoken character, but here she felt strangely out of place.

" _I_ did." He spoke as if it made everything clear, only it didn't.

"Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." He shrugs easily into his greatcoat, smooth and slightly suave, if she thought about it. "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Blatant contradiction of her words a moment ago, and she knows it.

He's rearranging his coat collar and she wonders for just a moment if he'd sound so sure of himself if she were to rearrange his face. With skin like that and cheekbones like those, every blow would show quite pleasantly, in her modest opinion. "How _could_ you know about Afghanistan?" She's rather lost, and finds herself remembering what it was like to be this quick and sure and . . . so damn confident.

He wraps his scarf around his neck, paying strictest attentions to it, though she can guess from the sampling she's had that he doesn't have to even think about his actions; his mind's probably leagues away. "Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He's baffling! She doesn't know if she wants to curse and kick him or scream for him to stop and then demand he take her to a pub so she can get drunk and be unable to regret herself next morning. But something tells her he isn't going to be that type. If the scarf and coat are anything to go by.

He picks up his phone and looks at it. She eyes his hand, her mind jumping to the fact that she doesn't even know his name and yet she's already considering flats and how she'd go about sharing one with him. He starts walking towards her, but she knows his only goal is the door, and can't help but notice as he comes closer that he's miles taller than she is and it'd be an annoying difference in close proximity. Not that she'd ever want to be _that_ close to him, she hastily reprimands her wandering mind.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry– gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He's cool and sure and ignorant of the fact that she's standing there trying not to consider herself lucky while at the same time hellishly confused. He's standing just by her, slips his phone into his pocket, and now he's walking passed, heading for the door. But she hasn't said anything and what in the world? How did she just agree to . . . ?

"Is that it?" She whirls to keep him in her line of sight with the best that's in her, grinding her teeth against the annoying sensation traveling up her bum leg as she turns too fast.

"Is that what?" He comes around slowly, back to her in a way that's mesmerizing and collected; it reminds her of guns again, so perfect and genius; you're staring down the wrong end of the barrel and watching it fire, knowing the bullet arching toward you is deadly but you don't run because you can't help it, it's so disgustingly beautiful that you crave it because you'll be touched by fire and brilliance the moment it comes in contact with your flesh.

Then she remembers he said something, and she lightly licks her lips, trying to come up with a smart reply. Finally, her brain can think again, and she manages to stumble out, "We've . . . I've _just_ met you, and now we're to go look at a flat _you've_ selected?" It was unbelievable and fast and smooth. It made her feel alive for the first time in a long time, the suddenness of it all.

"Problem?" He looks at her carefully, and she thinks about how there can be a lot of terrible things about him she doesn't know, even though Mike trusts him. And for the first time in a long time . . . she wants to live dangerously again. It makes her smile unbelievingly, this conclusion to her muddled feelings. She jerks her eyes off the tall man in front of her to the other man in the room, but Mike's no help, he just enjoys the tension and drama in front of him, so she finds herself staring at dark hair and pale skin again, with lovely eyes to match.

"I– We don't know a _thing_ about each other!" She tries to sound incredulous, but it's not a very good attempt. Then she grasps the last thing she can to hold onto in this chaos. "I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your _name_!" It's a pathetic excuse because she's done a lot with men whose names she never knew.

His eyes flicker over her in a studying, concentrated manner. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic– quite correctly, I'm afraid."

And she feels vulnerable again, remembering what she'd been told. Her mind falls on Steve's smiling, suntanned face in her memory, and she feels like moaning at the pain in her gut from thinking about the absence of him. She can't meet this man's cool, smug eyes anymore, not feeling this way; she's afraid he'll see too much of her, parts she's not willing to give up just yet.

"That's enough to be going on, don't you think?" His voice is knowing and almost self-righteous, and she thinks about hitting him again and watching those lovely eyes of his widen in surprise and shock. Confidant enough to raise her head, she looks up, only to find that he's drifted away and going out the door. But his long fingers don't leave it, and she can see the edge of his coat cuff as he slides back into the room around the door.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." And then he does something no man has done to her in a long, long time. He winks and clicks his tongue, bringing all her earlier thoughts flooding back to her mind and making her feel the beginning of a serious blush. He's not focused on her anymore, and that's good. Because she's falling apart and she'd rather he not be aware of it.

"Afternoon."

She's staring at Mike, watches him lift his hand in response as the door closes loudly in Sherlock Holmes' wake. She feels funny, and Mike nods but she can't do anything back.

"Yeah, he's like that."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Sooooo. . . *nonchalantly looks around* What does everyone think of this chapter? Too much? Because honestly, I feel I might have put too many of my own quirks into Miss Watson, sorry. The lyrics at the beginning (but it's probably obvious considering it's the Sherlock fandom I'm addressing) a referring to the fact that Sherlock sees everything, but he sometimes doesn't see the emotions of people right in front of him. The next line after " _You see nothing at all_ " is " _Such a beautiful view_ " but, *snickers* I felt that would make it garishly obvious I'm referring to Sherlock, so I left it off. **

**And yes, everyone gets two chapters because it's the weekend and I want to get things moving with this story! So, please keep in mind that I'm American (and I _don't_ own Sherlock!) so I'll get some things wrong. Please let me know if I have, so I can mend the errors! Thank you and good night, **

**WH**


	5. Fascinating

_Scrolling through the paragraphs  
Clicking through the photographs_

 _*Perfect Symmetry – Keane*_

* * *

She blinked, trying to reassemble her thoughts so she can communicate again because she knows Mike's looking at her for more than a nod of concurrence to his remark, only, she's not sure she can articulate anything yet but admiring noises. It was bruising to her pride, since she'd thought herself long past thinking of men in that manner the moment she'd set her eyes on them. It was more than a bit distressing to find herself standing at square one with this Sherlock Holmes.

"He's quick," she finally managed, and feels like wincing because that's not enough to compliment him; but she also wants to be cool about the encounter. Mike can't know that she's feeling ruffled.

"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Bright and alert. But it's like he doesn't exactly have any feelings. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in his mind," Mike remarked quietly, looking to the door. She studied her old friend, and wasn't ignorant to the concern in his tone. He'd always been a caring person, disliking for anyone to be possibly depressed or lonely. She was a project for him, she concluded; she guessed Mr. Holmes had been at one point, too.

"When I meet him tomorrow, I'll see what I can find out." She gave a somewhat tired smile before pressing her cane to the floor and sliding her bum leg across the tiles stiffly. The walk was in the beginning stages of making itself known, she realized.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. You're probably tired out after all that; I know I was the first time I met him." Mike is not shy about admitting the information, and she finds herself curious again.

"How much do you _really_ know about him?" she queries, coming abreast of her friend near the lab's door. He looks at her, then looks at the floor, eyes traveling over the grout, before he pushes his glasses up his nose again and meets her inquisitive gaze.

"Not much at all really, except that he's different. You used to like the different ones. I thought you said one time that they made your world interesting." He's searching her face for some sign of remembrance, and she tried to swallow calmly so he can't see she knows exactly what he's talking about. It felt like a lifetime since she'd spiritedly yelled those words from Bart's rooftop near the end of a term.

"I'm almost older than him." It's not a question, she just knows it. She's trying to shrug off Mike's suggestive words, trying to feign disinterest, but it's not working and he can probably see it in her eyes.

"Give or take two, three months. But it's not like that's stopped you before." He chuckles tellingly, waving his hand to dismiss what he said as he goes to open the lab door for her exit. "Ring me up after you've met and looked at the flat," he calls to her as she goes passed. She nods, lifting her hand.

"Sure, sure," she murmurs absently. She's drifting away from Mike, walking down the hall thinking more about the man she just met and the fact that she could be sharing a flat with him for an extensive amount of time. She'd share a flat with a man who considered silence and violin playing his worst habits. Where had her brain gone; was she not thinking anymore? Why had she agreed to this in the first place? It was wild, insane. _Unbelievable_.

 **.**

 **.**

It took her an hour to walk home. When she finally arrived, the sun was low in the sky, and it wasn't long before it would be dark. That meant nightmares she couldn't stop, thoughts she couldn't bear to think, and memories she wished she'd just forget. It makes her feel old and pained and weighted with grief.

She closes her door behind her as she steps into her flat, looking around at the bareness of it all. After standing in that lab she remembered what living feels like. After talking with Mr. Holmes she remembers what fun it once was to be quick and sharp. God, how she missed those days!

With a soft sigh she lowered herself onto her bed, resting her cane against the edge, feeling empty and alone and too quiet. There had been so much _noise_ when she'd been in that lab; in a good, distracting sort of way. She lifted her hand, and it comes to her for a moment that it didn't shake when she was talking with Mr. Holmes. He'd not factored the shaking into his appraisal of her. She passed the hand over her face, trying to rub away the exhaustion, but it's not working.

Her eyes rove about her droll flat again, and settle on her laptop.

 _'_ _Searching him isn't stalking, it's called being careful.'_ She debated it momentarily. ' _Since when have I_ _ **ever**_ _cared about being '_ _ **careful'**_ _?'_ She scoffs to the empty room and jumps in surprise because it sounds lonely and feeble, not at all as brave and annoyed as she'd tried to make it. Finally, she can't help herself. But as she rises, she thinks about the fact that it's nearly dark and if she prepares for bed she could probably ward off several hours of nightmares by reading up on the mysterious Sherlock Holmes.

Not to mention other . . . things . . . about him.

Nodding to herself, she stands, running her fingers through her hair as she limps to the closet to grab some night clothes before heading to the bathroom.

 **.**

 **.**

Coming out, her hair damp from another shower, she stands for a moment in the doorway. _'Showers are relaxing,'_ she tells herself, and not practiced simply because she doesn't think she can take baths without thinking about . . . submersion. She'd almost tried to drown once, but she'd stopped herself from going too far. That had been right before she'd been assigned Ella; right after she'd got back.

She looked at the laptop on the desk and absently fisted the hem of her extra-large flannel T-shirt in her fingers tightly. Finally, she determines that the only way she'll ever feel even a little confident meeting Mr. Holmes the coming evening is if she knows _something_ about him.

So she forces herself across the rug to pull the laptop off the desk and over to her bed, where she can research in some semblance of comfort. Besides, she plans to be at this a while. It's to ward off the oncoming terror of night, but she tries to keep that fact from herself, almost afraid to admit it because it would be defeat, and she's never been a defeatist.

Helping her leg up on to the bed, she arranges her pillows – only the two of them – behind her and leans back against them, pulling the laptop onto her lap; that thought makes her smile for a fraction of a moment. Opening the lid, she glances at the page she'd pulled up that morning. My but that seemed so long ago! Noticing the One Word Not Worth Dwelling On again, she quickly closes the page, bringing up a search website. For a moment, her fingers freeze, and embarrassment overtakes her. This is not her. She _never_ looks men up!

"You only met him for perhaps ten minutes, you are looking him up, Johnny," she scolds herself, roughly selecting the keys that spell out Mr. Holmes' name. After moving the cursor over the search button, she watches as the results load. What comes up surprises her. There's a lot of material, but most of it doesn't even pertain to the man she just searched. She scrolls down, a stubborn feeling of determination to find _something_ about him rising inside her. He texted like he knew what he was about, so he must have some sort of digital footprint.

' _Wait, he texted on_ _ **your**_ _phone. Don't you– can't I?'_ She snuck a glance at her phone on the night table, almost feeling as if she expected it not to be there. ' _You're being an idiot! Get yourself together and see what he texted!_ ' She pushed the laptop to the side and leaned over, fetching her phone into her hand. Pressing buttons the screen comes on, and she passes through the menu until she spots what she wants. _Sent Messages._ She gives the screen a thoughtful smile and selects it.

 **If brother has green ladder  
arrest brother.**

 **SH**

She blinks, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow, trying to come up with answers to the confusing text. She looks who it was sent to, but the only thing is a number she's not seen before, and she's not _about_ to call it. Staring at the screen in momentary perturbation, she then slides her eyes back over to the laptop, and notices the top of a link at the bottom of the first page of search results. Returning the phone to the table she pulls the laptop back to herself, scrolling down the screen and staring at the blue link.

 ** _Sherlock Holmes – The Science of Deduction_**

It's there in bold typeface, it's simple yet elegant words almost shouting out the character of the man she just met. She reads the description snippet of the blog – what else could this site be? Besides, it's highly amusing to know the man she just met writes a blog about what interests him. Maybe she can glean something valuable about blogging from this for herself. Not that she'll be going back to _that_ pastime any time soon! Making a face at the thought she selects the link, watching the page load.

It's strangely fascinating, reading what he's going on about. At first, she tried to be interest in the tobacco ash theory, but at ash number ninety she lost interest. It was boring and she couldn't imagine why anyone would bother studying it. But then, Mike _had_ said his interests were different from most. She went on, and guffawed at several of his "deductions."

"You can't tell if someone's lying by how much their nose itches!" She frowned, moving on. A few things she agreed on, and wondered why he'd talk about something so absurdly simple. "Maybe he's not as smart as he lets people think," she muses softly. But she can't seem to leave the page, ridiculous as some of Mr. Holmes' statements get.

After a long time of her eyelids feeling heavy, she rubs them and then looks back at the screen, only to notice she'd gone through somewhere around nine hundred posts. Her eyes catch the small clock in the corner of the screen as the minutes change.

"Bloody hell, I've been doing this for five hours!" She stares at the time disbelievingly, since it seems like she'd only recently read through the first post about ashes. "I need to sleep," she mutters, firmly closing the laptop instead of glancing to the next deduction in the long list of posts.

Setting the computer on the night table, she leaned back in bed, slowly sliding down until she was lying on her back and looking up at the ceiling. "Only four hours until I have to get up. Thirteen hours until I meet Mr. Holmes. How am I going to waste my time until then?" She closed her eyes, thinking as she drifted off that he needed to have a picture of himself on his blog to make it more personal. Not to mention that there were only so many pictures of ashes and body parts she could drudge through before wishing for some nice pictures of his eyes.

"Only normal thing about the man, and even _that's_ not completely normal. . ."

 **.**

 **.**

An annoying beeping was ripping her from her dark, pleasant sleep. Instantly she shot up in bed, her heart pounding as she thought about bombs and how she needed to _get out now_ if she wanted to keep all her limbs. But when she saw the alarm clock blinking 6:30 a.m., and realized she'd not had a single nightmare, she relaxed, slamming her hand down on the button on top to make it stop the dreadful racket. _'Only a few more seconds, please. . .'_

She woke up slowly, opening one eye to look blearily at the time. _'How the hell did I sleep in three hours?'_ She lifts her head, noting the alarm clock reads 9:38 a.m. She shifted in bed, thinking about how to pass the exorbitant amount of time today. ' _You could always walk around London, finally ending up on Baker Street,'_ she mused, looking over to the window and watching the light outside.

' _Or you could finish those posts. You still have thousands to read,'_ she finally concludes, groggily rising and reaching for her cane. At least she got some decent sleep, she decides.

 **.**

 **.**

She looked around, wondering how close it was to seven as she limped down Baker Street, searching addresses on the buildings. There's the number he gave, she notices, crossing the street and walking up to the door. _'Hmm, two steps to the door. But it could be worse,'_ she determines, reaching for the knocker on the finely varnished black door with brass numbers. A car rumbles up behind her, and the military instinct to never let anything come up on her from her blind spot kick in. Or maybe that's her paranoia talking.

A cab pulled to the kerb and she watched as he got out, same coat from the day before on, same scarf; the only thing that changed markedly was his shirt and pants. He looked at her, his head almost unnoticeably tilted to one side. "Hello."

She doesn't know whether to reply or move toward him; she suddenly feels strange with him here, like she's just run a long way and can't quite catch her breath or as if she's green and rookie again, learning how to sight down a scope for the first time. She never liked feeling shy, but she feels it frustratingly sharp now.

He turns away from her momentarily, paying the cabbie before moving up closer to her and the door. She's watching him, and finally decides to speak. "Um, hello, Mr. Holmes." She quickly forces herself to look somewhere other than directly into his eyes, worried she might stupidly mumble something about them if she looked long enough.

He lightly shakes his head, and she focuses on his hair brushing against his forehead with the motion, curls tumbling forward. "Sherlock, please," he corrects casually, and holds out his hand. She blinks, wondering for a moment what she's supposed to do before she shoots her hand out, for some reason wanting to put her hand in his just to know what it feels like.

He clasps her hand firmly, briefly, and then releases it, and she reluctantly copies his motions, though perhaps she was weaker in her shake than he'd been, but she was a woman after all, and maybe he wouldn't notice it.

She clears her throat as he looks around coolly. "Well, this is a very . . . very prime spot. It has to be expensive." And then she feels like wincing internally, remembering that post of his about the earmarks of difficult or expensive women being that they always worry over the prices of things. She's not like that, but he's only just met her and he doesn't know her at all.

He studies her, and she reminds herself that she's going to have to remember to call him Sherlock and not Mr. Holmes or 'that strange man' anymore. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. . ." She's trying to be casual while at the same time she's allowing herself the luxury of taking him in again. _'My, but he does cut a clean figure!'_ And then she wants to blush, feeling idiotic for thinking such things. She nods, trying to pay attention to him again.

". . . A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." So he'd been to the States, then? That was interesting. She nodded like she'd heard, wondering again if his eyes were blue or green, maybe a bit of both? And then death and sentences returned to her from his explanation about the flat and their possible landlady.

"Sorry – But, um, you stopped her husband from being executed?" She furrowed her brows just a bit, watching his face for hints as to if he found her question irritating. But, like Mike had said, there seemed to not be much emotion there. Until his eyes seemed to sparkle a bit with amusement.

"Oh no, I ensured it." He smiled, but she had a nerve-tingling sense that it was fractured and synthetic; almost completely fake. But there was no more time for queries and answers, since the knock to the door was answered with it being throw open widely and a grey-haired woman coming down a step from the interior to hug Mr. H– Sherlock.

"Sherlock, hello!" she greeted affectionately as he pulled back from her embrace. Clearly, Johnny noticed, he was not overly-fond of others touching him in affection. He looked at her, and she wanted to freeze, because for a moment she thought he knew exactly what she'd just thought about him.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor Johnny Watson." His head was tilted slightly to one side again, and he seemed to be trying to gauge her reaction to the older woman. Or maybe it was the opposite.

But there was no time for those thoughts, as Mrs. Hudson turned her friendly eyes on Johnny and smiled. "Hello, dear." She seemed quite welcoming, and Johnny felt that as long as no questions were asked, besides the usual preliminaries, in regards to the war or the limp, she'd survive this just fine.

"Hello, nice to meet you." Johnny began to put out her hand, but stopped, feeling that it would be too informal, considering the greeting Sherlock received; almost was forced to give. This woman had wanted her husband dead, and Sherlock had made that possible. Could there be something wrong with these people? Should she excuse herself now, declaring this too hasty? Why would you want your husband dead, after all? Let's not even mention the fact that Sherlock himself was strange. . .

"Come in, come in!" Mrs. Hudson spoke happily, almost eagerly.

She looked at her, struggling to focus her thoughts; to iron out all the tangles and wrinkles. "Oh, that-thank you. Thank you very much." After glancing out of the corner of her eye at Sherlock, who still seemed to be regarding her intently, she decided that was the best thing to say. But she couldn't seem to make herself budge from the concrete. Behind them a car drove passed, and she wondered how many seconds were passing, or was it only in her mind?

"Shall we?" She's looking to Sherlock as he dips his head in an old-fashioned bow almost, turning his head toward the doorway in silent question.

"Yeah. . . Yes." She decides that since she's come back from across and beyond, it's the best thing she's admitted in a long time.

"All right then." And Mrs. Hudson's voice is bright as she ushers them in.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Sorry this chapter has been so long in coming! *looks carefully for angry readers over trench edges* But Life always seems to enjoy bothering my Muse and taking up a great deal of my time! And since I'm in school all year, I have a lot of studying to do and that takes up time. Now, I have some _Very_ _Important_ _Questions_ to ask ya'll, darling readers! *beams innocently***

 **1\. Do you mind if Sherlock is older or younger than Johnny? Would younger by 2 or 3 years be acceptable to everyone? Or do you want him older? I can always go back and change that beginning part of this chapter if you want. Ya'll tell me! _**Please**_ **

**2. _Sooooo. . ._ This is a hard one to ask, but it is inevitable, and I might as well ask it now. *winces* Do you want Johnny to marry Mary in this fic? ****(Genderswapped, naturally!)** **(aka Matthew Evan Morstan, if everyone agrees with that name... I would've gone with 'Martin', but it goes without saying why I didn't...) Or do you want to just let me write what I write and figure that out as we go? Choice is all ya'lls, just sayin'.**

 **3\. Would you be receptive to some segments from Sherlock's point of view on this whole thing, or do you want it to strictly told from Johnny's? See, I'm wondering on this, since some people like to have his take on things. . .**

 **4\. (last one, I _swear!_ ) Does everyone mind if I'm not exactly medical-perfect in this fanfic? I mean, Johnny's a doctor, but obviously I'm not. I'm a writer, and those is like two completely different animules. . . so I'm obviously gonna get something incorrect. Does that bother everyone? I'll certainly try hard, but sometimes I just won't be able to have the first-hand info that would help me make a situation more "real". **

**All right, questions over! :) Thanks to everyone who guest reviewed, even if you have accounts! (I understand what it's like to not want to bother with all that.)**

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 **Guest: I updated, are you devouring this newest fem!John chapter enthusiastically? (if you're two different guests, could you differentiate somehow? It's hard to reply to you in my A/Ns when I can't tell!) :(**

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 **Rielle: I am so glad you're impressed and pleased with this little story! You sound from your review like an exceptionally fabulous writer, so I'll take your words as high praise! :) Sorry, this A/N makes this chapter loooong! Did I say that all your compliments are making me happy and eager to write a ton more chapters for this story? ****Well they are!**

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 **Happy reading,**

 **WH**


	6. Beginning

_And we've been a long time waiting  
And it's been a lifetime in the making_

 _*Again and Again – Keane*_

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She looked around the foyer as Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her. It was rather dark, but that wasn't too terrible; she'd stood watch on darker nights and in more dingy buildings than this. Johnny turned when Sherlock seemed to be racing up the stairs. My he had such boundless energy! But, she'd been like that once too, she supposed with a small exhale that wanted to be a loud sigh. He paused on the stairs, and she could swear when she looked at him that his brows rose slightly in that universal expression of "are you coming or is an engraved invitation required?"

Resolving herself to the fact that she'd sooner or later have to climb the stairs – a bit steep, she noticed as she rested her cane on the first step – whether she wanted to or not. She concentrated on them, and not the man attempting, it seemed, to keep from looking as if he were running ahead of her; only problem being that she was just too slow and he was simply too quick. Eventually she reached the top and felt like expelling a breath of relief. He glanced at her but moved on ahead and twisted the knob of a door, pushing it inward.

She tried to glimpse the room he was walking into, but he was tall, the door was narrow, and she was short. Limping into the room behind him, she looked around. The damask on the opposite walls of the living room seemed relatively new, though the boxes and occasional loose objects such as paper and knickknacks contradicted that the wallpaper had been done recently.

 _'_ _I don't believe I've seen such a wreck since I was at Harry's,'_ she mused thoughtfully, turning in a circle as she surveyed the room. She noticed a kitchenette, and a single hallway leading to a bedroom and a separate bath. ' _It could be cleaner, but it'll do, I suppose,'_ she determined with a tiny nod of her head, finally returning her attentions to the man standing halfway between the kitchen and the living room.

"Well, this could do very nicely. Most certainly, I'd think." She surveyed the mess again, wondering how long it would take her to set things to rights.

His voice interrupted her mental calculations, and she focused on him. "Yes. Yes I think so. My thoughts precisely. . ." He glanced around the room, and she wanted to grin; he looked pleased, and it was amusing to notice. She resumed voicing her opinion, just as he spoke as well.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in –"

"As soon as we can get all this rubbish cleaned away. . . Oh."

She couldn't help herself, her words were too fast, and she couldn't retract them. She found herself looking at him, and he was staring back. She blushed slightly, turning her head away, trying to find words to apologize. "So this is all. . ." She ended up staring at a carton overflowing with papers, and knew she couldn't finish that sentence. He seemed moderately embarrassed as well, and she wondered if he was attempting to analyze the room from an outsider's perspective or something now.

He suddenly cleared his throat, and she looked at him again. "Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit." She watched him turn around abruptly, moving through the boxes and chaos of the room. He grabbed up some folders, dropping them rather unceremoniously and at complete random into another carton nearby. She lifted her eyebrows, biting her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

But when he almost roughly picks up a messy stack of clearly _unopened_ letters and pins them to the mantelpiece with a jackknife, a giggle of amusement escapes her, and she begins to cover her mouth with her hand, since he's clearly trying hard to regain his dignity in the situation. He looks at her, a hint of a frown on his face, but his fingers resting on the mantle draw her attention away from the hilarity of stabbing his post.

"Is that. . . That's a skull!" She raises her cane and points it at the object in question with a bit of a flourish. She's no fool; when she was studying she'd seen plenty of them. Why he had one, though, was beyond her.

Sherlock glanced at her, and then at the skull in question. "Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'. . ." he trailed off. And there was that almost painfully uncomfortable note in his voice, as if he was close to being worried about making her think him strange, but also as if the idea was furthest from his thoughts and he wanted simply to fill her in about certain aspects of his life.

She nods; trying to alleviate the discomfort she knows she's put into the room, hoping to change the subject. He doesn't look at her, his eyes moving around the flat, and she wonders if she's made him seriously rethink sharing with her. Ex-soldiers probably aren't his taste. Not that she really cares what his tastes are, she hurriedly reminds herself. But footsteps came from behind them, apparently ending the conversation, and he began removing his scarf and greatcoat, tossing them over an armchair nonchalantly. She lifted an eyebrow. For being someone of considerable intelligence she would've suspected him to be neater.

But that's what she got for assuming. ' _Better learn to stop doing that,_ ' she reprimands herself.

She turns to look at Mrs. Hudson as the elderly woman reaches for a cup of tea on a table, or perhaps what _was_ a cup of tea. Since it looked to be a day old at least, which meant Sherlock had to have come here the night previous. Well, wasn't he sure of himself? She glanced at the man moving around casually, tossing things in different boxes with subtle accuracy, as if trying to keep his attempts at tidying up unnoticed.

"Well, what do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson seemed to be an amiable woman, and Johnny was beginning to wonder why she seemed overly-affectionate to Sherlock. The landlady point at a corner of the living room as she continued, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms."

Johnny blinked, snuck a glance at Sherlock, and noticed that he was quite ignorantly distracted by a collection of papers and seeming rubbish in a smaller cardboard carton. He motioned to something within the word content, as if disgusted or annoyed, then frowned, and promptly dumped it into another box at his feet, shuffling through more papers. No help there, then. She turned back to the overly-curious and insinuating landlady before her.

"Of _course_ we'll be needing two. Mr. Hol– Sherlock and I– We. . . We're certainly not. _No_." She emphasized it, attempting to clarify without having to speak blatantly. How could the woman even assume such . . . ? It was as if. . . Johnny glanced at Sherlock when he passed behind her into the kitchenette. He must have done or said _something_ for Mrs. Hudson to garner this fantastical notion that they were in a relationship. _What_ , exactly, had he implied? She looked back at the elderly woman. She smiled, with too much knowing in her lively eyes. Johnny wished to punch something, preferably Mr. Coat-and-scarf-wrapped-in-an-enigma.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts around here. Can't say I haven't seen my share. It's not much to me, just that you keep things to yourselves. But there's been plenty round here; men, women, women and men." Her voice got lower when Sherlock passed behind them again. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

Johnny felt like blushing furiously, and she was sure she would've, if not for the fact that she knew "those types" too. Hell, she'd been in the _military_. There was plenty of that going on and she didn't care to be privy to details here. Glancing at Sherlock for some sort of dismissal of Mrs. Hudson's words helped nothing, considering he was still clearly oblivious to the conversation. "Um, yeah, that's fascinating, but, could you, you know, maybe not?" She frowned just a bit.

The landlady nodded her head slightly, and almost meanderingly moved off toward the kitchenette Sherlock had vacated. Johnny watched her go, but upon turning where she stood, felt an acute pain shoot up her leg. Grimacing slightly she limped over to one of the two armchairs – the more comfortable one – and fixed the pillows a bit before falling into it gratefully, releasing a sigh.

"Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made!"

Johnny closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip momentarily, thinking about the deep clean this place so obviously needed. Clearly, Sherlock Holmes was not the neatest genius in history. As she looked at a small pile of papers and books and knickknacks on the table nearby, Sherlock returned from the far side of the room. She watched him go through some more papers, scanning over them quickly before either shoving them into a new stack or off into a box. She needed something to talk about, but the same thought continuously popped into her brain. After shoving it down five times unsuccessfully, she gave a small sound of resolve, tapping her fingers softly on her jean-clad leg.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." She wanted to wince. How that could even be considered casual conversation she didn't know. She sounded like some sort of stalker! ' _Brilliant, you idiot!'_ she scolded herself while waiting for his reaction. It was immediate. He turned from what he was doing.

"Anything interesting?"

Now why in the world did he seem so curious . . . enthusiastic, even, for a response? She figured she might as well lay it out straight. "Yes, well, I found your website, 'The Science of Deduction.'" She reigned in her snort of derision at saying it aloud.

"What did you think?" He smiled, and she wanted to laugh. Some of his 'deductions' were nothing to be proud or pleased about! She glanced away from him before looking back, lifting an eyebrow sarcastically. He straightened, and she was once again reminded just how tall he was, especially from this chair.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb." She wondered if her voice sounded skeptical enough. Did she need to say more? Maybe she'd been too blunt; he looked slightly affronted.

That didn't last long. His eyes seemed to darken slightly as he stared back without wavering. "Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

If that direct attitude wasn't attractive, then she knew nothing about attraction. She blinked for a space, trying to keep her thoughts from becoming embarrassing words. He hadn't looked away. Finally she came to something she could say without giving her mental state away. "How?" A small smile came to his face, but he turned away from her, focusing on his original task of tidying up his belongings.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your alley. Three exactly the same." Johnny glanced at the woman, watching her slowly come out of the kitchen with a newspaper in hand. The headlines were bold, and The Word leapt out at her; the same one from the day before. Instantly she turned her focus back to the man instead of the paper.

Sherlock seemed to be thinking of something else, because he didn't reply to Mrs. Hudson; instead he was walking to the windows overlooking the road below. Johnny watched him. Right as she began to assume he would never reply, he spoke. "Four." It was soft, and for a moment Johnny wondered if he meant to say it aloud. He continued watching the road below, but then turned slightly away from the window. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

Johnny glanced at Mrs. Hudson, wondering what all this was about. Sherlock was acting as if he was somewhere else, as if they weren't exactly in the room anymore. And then there was a loud clattering up the stairs, and someone seemed to burst into the room with all the grace of an elephant. Johnny and Mrs. Hudson watched him, but the landlady seemed to know the man, while Johnny ran up blank. He didn't bother to address them, he walked to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to him fully, his gaze intense. "Where?"

Johnny watched the men, utterly lost. But they were communicating on an entirely different wave length, and it reminded her of soldiers in some way.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." His voice was a bit gravelly and sharp, as if he was used to giving orders into a radio and having them instantly heeded. He stood there, catching his breath, but Sherlock's reply was instant.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me if there wasn't something different." He was so sure of himself, and if they didn't seem so serious she might have laughed.

"You know how they never leave notes?" The strange man tilted his head slightly, almost as if he were attempting a type of dramatics.

"Yeah?" It was such a typical response, and it made her smile. A "yeah, so what?" gesture that made her realize he didn't have time for any dramatics but his own, and right then she became all the more interested in Sherlock Holmes.

"This one did. Will you come?" He seemed to be asking out of habit, because she couldn't seem to shake the feeling that the man knew Sherlock would come with him to wherever he was going. But Sherlock did rush for his coat as she thought he would've. Instead, he stepped closer to the man.

"Who's on forensics?" It was a cool question, almost miniscule, but his voice made it sound as if the answer to it would be imperative to his coming. Johnny leaned forward when the older man seemed to grimace a bit.

"It's Andersen."

"Andersen won't work with me." Sherlock gave a frustrated expression, moving back. Johnny wanted to ask what was going on and why in the world was Sherlock needed in something to do with all these deaths? He wasn't police and he wasn't government of any kind, far as she knew.

"Well, he won't _be_ your assistant." That was begging in its subtlest form if ever she'd seen it, Johnny determined, eyeing the un-introduced-yet-welcomed-intruder coolly.

"I _need_ an assistant." Now _that_ just sounded childish. She focused on Sherlock again, watching him give almost an immature expression when faced with the prospect of this mysterious Andersen being the only one to help him on forensics. Silence reigned supreme for an instant.

"Will you come?" Imploring, she could've sworn on it. The man watched Sherlock with great care, and Johnny had a feeling that he would tie Sherlock up and shove him out the door if he replied 'no.'

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

She wanted to smile at that, but she didn't. She just watched with amusement, before remembering how enthusiastic certain dead people had been about certain military stints that they just couldn't help themselves whenever the opportunity to preform them showed.

"Thank you." Now it was mystery man's turn to look at everyone in the room instead of them all looking at him. Finally, as if deciding something, he turns and goes back down the stairs. Johnny looks back to Sherlock, wondering why he had suddenly become so still, staring out the door as if everything of utmost importance lay beyond the threshold. She heard the front door close in the mystery man's wake, and almost simultaneously, Sherlock seemed to explode with enthusiasm.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, for serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" He dashed about the room, collecting his coat and scarf with ridiculously exuberant energy. But it made Johnny feel slightly hollowed out, watching him go from calm and bored to utterly alive and cheerful. She knew what it felt like to be so on fire that the world dimmed and felt incredibly mundane. She'd felt it once, and it hadn't really been that long ago. The conclusion made her frown. Sherlock's voice pulled her from the thought.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

It was so casual and naturally assuming, like he knew she would do it and was only asking out of habit. Like a child asks for a bedtime story, even though he knows he's gonna get one. She chuckled softly to herself, and in all his hurry, Sherlock seemed to miss it.

Like all affectionate people, Mrs. Hudson called out from the kitchenette, "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper!" And that made Johnny almost break out into a grin, but it didn't. Sherlock seemed ignorant of Mrs. Hudson's affection for him. Or, if he was attuned to it, he blatantly ignored it. That was rather disappointing of a man who claimed to be able to identify software designers by ties and pilots by left thumbs. Could he really not identify someone's feelings?

"Something cold will do. John," and she stiffened sharply in her seat at his voice, all mirth vanishing, "have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

Her breathing came in unsteady bursts, and she almost gasped at the cold sensation rushing down her arms. Her shoulder throbbed with a dull ache, and she was acutely aware of the pain in her leg. But he was going down the stairs and out the front door. She grasped her cane tightly, trying to halt the tremor in her hand.

' _He hadn't known. He couldn't have known. Johnny, he doesn't know, it's just the name all people eventually refer to because your name is a boy's name._ ' She tried to soothe her nerves, and it was working. Taking measured breaths she calmed herself as Mrs. Hudson came and stood by her chair.

Looking fondly at the empty doorway for a moment, she then said, "Look at him, dashing about. _My_ husband was just the same." Johnny wondered if she would ever remove the idea from the woman's head that she was _nothing_ but a flatmate to Sherlock. She cleared her throat softly, shifting in the arm chair. Well, she had all of her stay here to convince the woman otherwise!

"But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell." Mrs. Hudson touched her arm as she left the newspaper on the small table beside her chair. Johnny glanced at it, her thoughts growing dark.

 _'_ _You can tell what kind of type I am? Really? Then do you perhaps have any whiskey 'round? Any guns? Because I feel in the brightest, clearest,_ _ **keenest**_ _of moods to blow someone's head off! You have no bloody idea what my type is, I can assure you!'_ She uttered a low growl of annoyance, but made sure the landlady wouldn't hear.

"I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg." Mrs. Hudson pushed away from the arm chair and walked to the door, low heels tapping against the floor and the rug.

Why the hell was it only her leg that everyone noticed about here? Just the leg! Didn't she have any other more definable features? What was she, a walking, talking, breathing, sympathy-desiring ex-soldier?

"Damn my leg!" It exploded from her before she could contain it. Her wrath and resentment and frustration. She felt a growing desire to take something out, preferably the bovine skull between the windows; it was annoying her. And maybe burn some of this useless garbage surrounding her. Sherlock seemed to have discarded stuff he considered invaluable in the box directly across from her. Maybe she'd go out back and have a small bonfire, just to burn off some pent-up rage. God knows she needed to do _something_.

And then she remembered Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman was standing just feet away after uttering a small gasp of surprise at her exclamation. Johnny looked over at her, but looked away quickly, feeling utter mortification for allowing her emotions to run so rampant. "Sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I'm so– I get– It's just sometimes this bloody thing. . ." she bashed her leg with her cane, enjoying for once the throbbing pain that spiked up her calf.

"I understand dear; I've got a hip." Mrs. Hudson patted her dress with a knowing expression on her face, walking out the door from the kitchen. Johnny reached over and snatched up the paper she'd left behind, knowing she needed to distract herself against her anger.

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you." She glanced from Mrs. Hudson leaving to the newspaper and back quickly. A picture caught her eye, but as she looked at it, Mrs. Hudson replied.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper." Her heels echoed on the first few steps of the stairs. Johnny suddenly felt slightly hungry, turning her focus on the newspaper pictures again.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em," she mumbled, noticing that the detective inspector working on the suicides was the same man who'd come into their flat about fifteen minutes previously. She hummed at that fact.

"Not your housekeeper!" The shout reached her ears, and she nodded absently in reply, immersing herself in reading and studying. ' _D.I. Lestrade, leader of the case, gives little comment –'_

"You're a doctor." She jumps, looking from the paper to the living room door. Sherlock was back, and he seemed to be looking at her intently, a great deal of thought in his gaze. It felt as if he were . . . analyzing her. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

What the bloody hell was this? Annoyed and feeling tired of this strange game, she answered bluntly, "Yes."

"Any good?"

She stood quickly, almost without thinking about it. Was she good, had he actually asked that? " _Very_ good." She had been excellent; why else was she head doctor, retired of course. But still, that had been something. . . She stiffened, a flash of memory coming back to her of blood and screams and the operating tables in tents and old buildings under blazing heat.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."

It was almost noncommittal, and she felt some sense of longing fill her. "Hmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I'll bet." She wanted to feel daring and act nonchalant about it, but there was some part of her that held back, unwilling to brag.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." He seemed to nod his head, but it was near imperceptible, and she couldn't be sure the next instant that he'd even done it.

"Wanna see some more?"

And then her adrenaline was rushing, and she felt a thrill course up her spine. Oh, but yes, she wanted that again. To be seen as someone with strength and not just as some injured soldier. She loathed this civilian lifestyle, and she knew her desperation must show in her reply. "Oh _God,_ yes." He tilts his head, and suddenly she realizes that they're standing rather close together. When had he walked back into the flat? Abruptly, he turns and exits the room, leaving her standing there, slightly unsure of why she feels so excited all of the sudden.

And then she's moving out the door and down the stairs, surprisingly just behind him. Oh, does it feel good to be doing something with bodies again! She blinks at the realization, before shouting out to Mrs. Hudson so the woman won't bother with the tea.

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 **A/N:**

 **I am _so_ _sorry_ it took me _so long_ to get this chapter to ya'll! But I can only write Sherlock well when it truly comes to me to write about him, otherwise it comes out really crappy. I know, lame excuse, but it's either that one or " _I am writing a Non-FFN novel series for YA, so I don't have all the time in the world to write FFN."_ which sounds droll to me. I like the first better. **

**The lyrics at the beginning of this chapter reference the relationship of Sherlock and John. Not in a romantical sense, it's just purely about them meeting and how they work together. I tried to make this chapter long, and I SWEAR I'm working on the next chapter for ya'll!**

 **I loved all your reviews, and I'm sorry if I haven't responded properly to them all! But I'm taking everyone's advice and I hope you'll be happy with what's coming in the future! :) Thanks for favoriting and following and reviewing this story, ya'll are wonderful!**

 **Happy reading,**

 **WH**


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